


Twisted Heaven

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Okay, so here we go—my response to the January Challenge... I just had to suggest it, didn't I? Mary Sue fic, I had no idea how difficult it would be... Me and my big mouth... Anyway, This here is seriously AU stuff, I think— or maybe not, who knows? I'm not sure how, uh, well, I don't really understand the ratings anyway. I figure that this is gonna haveta be an M/K somewhere along the line—but you'll have to read it to find out whether that 'M' stands for 'Mulder' or 'Mockery'. This is supposed to be Mary Sue fic, after all
Collections: TER/MA





	1. Twisted Heaven I: Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> TER/MA January 2000 Challenge. This month I am going to do what I vowed I would never do. I am actually encouraging authors to write a Mary Sue piece. This means I want the author to create a character which is a portrayal of themselves in the story. It doesn't have to be an accurate portrayal, just a character that represents some part of yourself that interacts with the boys. Often this gets done by accident in stories, so I am sure that we can do it on purpose. —Rowanne   
> Authors Note: I'll confess that it does contain characters created by a certain Mr Carter, but they remain wholly the property of said Mr Carter, 1013 productions and Twentieth Century Fox Pictures Corporation, although I am borrowing them for a bit—I'll give 'em back, okay? Jeez, relax already. No infringement is intended; this is not for profit. Don't sue me, please Mr Carter—there's no point and no money. I could write for you though All feedback (good/constructive, likes/dislikes etc) gladly received as long as they are constructive. Say what? Oh, I'm getting to the story. Are you braced for impact? Well then, here goes:

Go to notes and disclaimers 

  
**Twisted Heaven**

A _Deliberate_ Mary Sue   
by Mockery 

Featuring a cast of recognisable names and faces 

**Part I: Falling**

  
The rain beat a rhythm of persistence against the world outside, an endless hissing rattle against pavement and cars.

Heavy grey clouds pressed tarnished light reluctantly through darkened stained glass windows, flicking secretive changeling expressions of malevolence across the frozen features of carved saints, oozing thickly around the shadow-wreathed pillars and shrouded corners.

The scent of incense lingered heavily in the air. The usage of years had secured it indelibly in the furnishings, and the oppressive heat of recent weeks had awakened its memory, released it from the dark wooden pews to saturate the atmosphere with the smell of tradition.

In the background, the priest's sermon echoed faintly across the distance between the altar and the ancient wooden doors, disappearing into the expanse of almost empty pews, absorbed in silence by the granite pillars, stern shepherds made redundant by an abscondant flock. The brittle reed of his voice faltered often, a nervous cough chasing thinly over the lectern in a cloud of chilled breath, sign of the return to a winter that had, barring a brief indian summer, already lasted eight months.

The wind blew sharply through the doorway, and at its touch Mockery shifted slightly, sinking deeper into the embrace of the shadows that surrounded him. Cold and clean, the wind sighed snowfall, whispered ice; its voice, louder than the priest's, hinted language, suggested complicity, connivance, implied avoidance; it hissed and swirled and murmured and died.

He shifted again, changing position, ignoring priest and wind equally as he waited. From where he sat, cigarette dangling casually from a hand slung carelessly over the back of a pew, feet in scuffed black DMs crossed negligently across the seat, he could see most of the church without being seen himself. Half in shadow against the icy stone of the pillar behind him, he slowly took a drag on the cigarette, allowing the smoke to curl lazily from the corners of his mouth and dissipate into the shadows that veiled the top half of his face.

He smiled, lips curling wryly at some unspoken thought, and he leant forward into the light as if trying to catch some salient point of the priest's mumbled sermon. His eyes, a muted silver-green in the flickering candlelight, were intent upon the tall figure of the woman who strode through the doors.

He was distracted by a shout from the pulpit as the priest delivered a vehement conclusion to his message, and by the time he turned back the woman was already sliding into the pew next to him.

"Mockery." Her voice rasped softly, smoke and silver and velvet sandpaper.

"Ruric." He swung his legs from the seat, and leaned forward again, elbows resting across his knees. "How are you?"

She smiled slightly, a quirky tilt of her mouth. "Can't complain. How's life treating you?"

"I'm alive." Ruric looked at him, eyebrow raised, and unable to avoid her implied sarcasm, Mockery suddenly grinned mischievously. "No really, I'm fine. Honestly."

"I worry about you, Infant. Occasionally. When I have time to myself."

"I do manage you know, away from your watchful eye. Your time could be spent on much more productive endeavours, I'm sure."

Ruric poked her tongue out at him. Flipping open a packet of Camel cigarettes, she pulled one out and raised it to her lips. "I take it they don't mind us smoking during the service? I noticed you were."

"I've never asked and they've never said anything to me."

"Ah." She put the cigarette away again and tucked the pack back into the pocket of her long woollen coat. Looking around, she assessed the few worshipers with a practised eye. "I notice the Cult's taken its toll here as well."

"Everywhere. The regular priest tried to integrate them, apparently, and came off the worst. Had some kind of accident or something only last week." Mockery flicked his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his heel. "Do you want to go somewhere else? We can go to the Coffee Shop—it's only around the corner."

"No. Let's stay here. There's something comforting about a Church—a feeling of protection, I guess." Ruric smiled. "Lapsed Catholic and all that."

"Hmmm." Mockery shifted on his seat again, turning to watch the door.

Outside, the thunder rumbled ominously and a stark streak of lightning seared brightly across the sky, flashing reflected blue-white neon bursts in the smeared windows across the street. He blinked, screwing his eyes shut as the image sent ricocheting visions scrambling over his retina, and twisted back to the gentle light of the candles.

Ruric was facing the altar, her eyes closed. Not wanting to disturb her, Mockery sat and watched her expression change as thoughts chased each other across her face. She looked tired, he thought, her elegance smudged slightly with a fatigue that wrought lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth; she needed a break, a holiday.

"You're missed, you know." She said suddenly, startling him. "And that's more or less why I'm here." She tilted her head towards him and opened her eyes. "But you probably knew that anyway. Didn't you."

Mockery waited as people filed out past them, nodding to the priest as he looked enquiringly at them on his way to the sacristy.

"You're here because of him, aren't you? What does he want?" Mockery's voice cracked, and he coughed, irritated, to clear his throat. In that moment he hated how young he sounded, how young he felt; in his voice the weight of anger rang through uncertainty, a confusion of innocence riotous through cynical experience.

"What he needs, Mockery; what you give him."

"I don't want to go back, Ruric. I can't. He doesn't own me and I can't be bought."

"He doesn't offer you payment. He doesn't offer you the choice." Her gaze was hard and uncompromising. She shifted on the hard pew, crossing her legs. "He knows we're friends, thee and me; he knows we meet here sometimes—he gave me a message for you."

Mockery waited, silent, his narrowed eyes searching the face half turned away from him towards the front of the church.

He knew Ruric was a messenger: Ruric was _the_ Messenger. Possessed of eidetic recall, Ruric's gift enabled her to record in exacting detail the slightest nuance of her employer's manner. When engaging her talent, all that was Ruric became subordinate to the message she was contracted to deliver, and in that instant she became the sender of the message and every instinct of her own was swept aside.

It had always frightened Mockery that she lost herself so completely in becoming someone else. From the moment she had first stepped from an alley and pulled him out of the path of a drunken beggar with a knife, Ruric had appointed herself his bodyguard; in all but the use of her gift, he trusted her implicitly. 

And now she employed her talent to deliver a message to him.

Ruric stretched, reaching behind her head to release her hair from the neat french pleat that held it tightly back from her face. As her long hennaed hair fell in rippling waves down over her shoulders and face, a long fingered hand swept backwards, flicking her hair from her eyes.

Mockery hesitated. "Can't you just tell me the message?"

Ruric looked at him in mock astonishment. "Why, Nikolai Arntzen! You take all the fun out of life!" She grinned at him. "This is business, Mockery. Let's do it my way—I don't get paid otherwise."

Ruric closed her eyes and her lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. Breathing deeply, she sat up straighter and uncrossed her legs. Poised, she became preternaturally still, and Mockery abruptly felt the skin tighten across the backs of his hands. She coughed, a little hiccup, and shook her head in annoyance, frowning intently as she clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. Always before she had slid into the message without pause, and now, unsure, Mockery leant forward and touched the back of her hand.

Suddenly her eyes snapped open again and she turned to face him.

Mockery sucked in a strangled gasp as the skin along Ruric's cheekbones began to writhe and shift, undulating in ripples as if the flesh beneath had begun somehow to reorder itself. Mockery stared, paralysed, caught between revulsion, horror and obscene fascination as brindled feathers erupted in sequence through Ruric's skin, a sweeping fluidity in the alacrity of their growth. Springing from mid-cheek the feathers spiralled outwards, flowing along her cheekbones and around her wildly staring eyes. Frozen, Mockery watched in panic as Ruric's pupils enlarged and somehow twisted, flexed in the iris, and then flared a sickly, oozing amber underscored by a pulsating black.

The wind whipped up again, and silent laughter rode it. Words began to grasp at him frantically, clawed, tearing at him, pushing against him. Borrowed from the priest's sermon, borrowed from his conscience, borrowed from the wind's accusations; focused through the unseeing gaze that pinned him against the pillar behind him: the words hammered at him, cut and slashed, trying to get inside his head, to impose their reality upon his own.

He screamed without sound as Ruric smiled maniacally at him, sparkling teeth clenched and jaw muscles spasming violently; silently shrieking, he saw her nostrils flare, saw a wild, desperate light fill her eyes, and watched them helplessly as thin tracks of blood chased down her cheeks like tears. Panicked, he pushed away as her breath came and fled in ragged, angry gasps.

Ruric's eyes blazed and she suddenly became still, calm. Her body relaxed, and she seemed to become the figure of ladylike elegance that first entered, but as she turned back to face Mockery, everything that he had known as Ruric had fled.

"Not a word of greeting, Master Arntzen? You've just witnessed the birth of a major player." Ruric's voice remained unchanged but for a weird harmonic echo that played insidiously beneath her words. Reaching out, she grabbed him by the upper arms and pulled him close. "Nothing to say?"

Mockery struggled ineptly against her grip, and then gave up as he realised he was unable to break her hold. His head slowly fell forward and he sighed, and in that moment, his trembling stopped.

"Well?"

Mockery's voice, subdued, spoke. "The message?"

She grasped his head and pulled his face to hers, prying his lips apart with her tongue and kissing him deeply. Pulling back slightly, her teeth bit into his lower lip and thin rivulets of metallic blood filled his mouth and bled, scalding, down his chin.

"I _am_ the message!" She said. "You are His: body and soul. As am I. And if He wants you—if He wants _you_ —then He will have you!"

"I don't think so." Mockery wrenched himself free, and scrambled backwards along the pew, turning and springing lightly over its back. Without looking behind, he fled into the shadows, the sound of his footfalls fading into the distance un-pursued.

That which had been Ruric bent slowly and picked up a long black and silver feather from where it had fallen onto the wooden pew. Holding it to the light, she sniffed it, ran it lightly through her fingers, rolled the quill between the palms of her hands and smiled. 

* * *

Mockery fled.

Sliding dangerously on a rain slick pavement, he reeled down the steps at the front of the church and stumbled into the road. Strangely disorientated, he fell to his hands and knees and retched violently, spewing the contents of his stomach across the tarmac.

Through the shrouding haze of the pounding rain, he dimly noticed the headlights of a car approaching, and staggered to his feet, weaving unsteadily towards the alleyway on the other side of the road. Pausing, he leaned heavily against the brickwork of an old house and turned back to face the way he had come.

Behind him, the old church reared up through the rain. High spire punctuating the sky in fierce exclamation, flutes and columns, carvings and gargoyles placed with calamitous precision, it was a stunning feat of oppressive gothic architecture. Stained and weathered, the grey stone of its exterior was smeared with swirls and streaks of black grime, and the flight of steps at the front was carpeted with sparse patches of unhealthy brown grass and mould. Standing at the top was the rain sodden figure of Ruric.

Even at this distance he could see her eyes, could feel them searching for him. Mockery shivered uncontrollably; he had no idea what was going on. The eyes brushed him, and though he was soaked to the skin, he felt himself seared with the intensity of their gaze.

"Shit," he murmured under his breath. "Shitshit shitshit. Shit."

The rain had long since plastered his dark hair against his skull, and he was glad for once that it was no longer flopping in his eyes. He sucked in a long, shuddering breath, and cast around desperately for a way out of the situation.

"Why the hell does he want me?" He muttered. "No. Strike that. I know bloody well enough why he would." His mind darted, sorting and analysing. Emotion could wait until he had the luxury of it. "I haven't done anything to warrant the bloody Raptors." And then he realised exactly what he had said. "Oh fucking hell. The bloody fucking Raptors."

Mockery rested his forehead against the crumbling brickwork, shut his eyes, heaved a leaden breath. The Raptors were _his_ assassins— Mockery had heard of them, heard them mentioned in jokey, half-whispered undertones that bordered on disbelief. Mockery had once heard them described as psychic parasites that bred through possession, and though he had dismissed the tale as merely that, he began to regret not paying attention. Poor Ruric; poor Ruric. A message. For him. But what the hell did it say?

Ruric—Raptor, he corrected—slowly began to descend the steps, long legs skipping gracefully where he had fallen. Moving purposefully, her long red hair blowing in rain tangled straggles, she strode towards the road, and, not waiting to see if he had been spotted, he turned and ran into the darkness of the alley.

End Part 1

* * *

Okay—so there wasn't actually _any_ Mulder or Krycek in this part... but there will be... honest! I was just...uh..setting the scene. No Jonah—I did not just get carried away. 

  
_'Sometimes fires don't go out/  
when you're done playing with them'   
— Coyote Shivers, 'Sugar High'_

  
January Challenges   
[email removed]   


  
Okay, so here we go—my response to the January Challenge... I just had to suggest it, didn't I? Mary Sue fic, I had no idea how difficult it would be... Me and my big mouth...  
Anyway, This here is seriously AU stuff, I think— or maybe not, who knows? I'm not sure how, uh, well, I don't really understand the ratings anyway. I figure that this is gonna haveta be an M/K somewhere along the line—but you'll have to read it to find out whether that 'M' stands for 'Mulder' or 'Mockery'. This _is_ supposed to be Mary Sue fic, after all  
I'll confess that it does contain characters created by a certain Mr Carter, but they remain wholly the property of said Mr Carter, 1013 productions and Twentieth Century Fox Pictures Corporation, although I _am_ borrowing them for a bit—I'll give 'em back, okay? Jeez, relax already. No infringement is intended; this is not for profit.  
Don't sue me, please Mr Carter—there's no point and no money. I could write for you though  
All feedback (good/constructive, likes/dislikes etc) gladly received as long as they _are_ constructive. Please post feedback to the list or to: [email removed]  
Say what? Oh, I'm getting to the story. Are you braced for impact? Well then, here goes:   
---


	2. Twisted Heaven II: Hiding from the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here we gomy response to the January Challenge... I just had to suggest it, didn't I? Mary Sue fic, I had no idea how difficult it would be... Me and my big mouth... Anyway, This here is seriously AU stuff, I think or maybe not, who knows? I'm not sure how, uh, well, I don't really understand the ratings anyway. I figure that this is gonna haveta be an M/K somewhere along the linebut you'll have to read it to find out whether that 'M' stands for 'Mulder' or 'Mockery'. This is supposed to be Mary Sue fic, after all

Go to notes and disclaimers 

  
**Twisted Heaven  
A _Deliberate_ Mary Sue by Mockery**

Featuring a cast of recognisable names and faces 

**Part II: Hiding from the Light**

The door opens a fraction, and Alex slides into the darkened room. He pauses, listening, for a moment and then closes the door softly behind him. Slowly he straightens up and relaxes as he sees the figure silhouetted against the window, a dark shape made darker by the muted glow of the streetlights beneath the rain. 

The figure, head bent in thought, is staring intently down at the pavement below, fingers resting lightly on the freezing glass of the window pane. Alex's eyes take in the shape of the gun on the sill, the empty shot glass sitting next to it; his nose registers the faint odour of spilled alcohol, smells the signature cologne—had he been blind, that perfume would have told him who stood there watching the street. 

Alex steps into the room, shrugs off his leather coat and silently drops it onto the couch. He moves to the window, takes the opposite side and leans against the frame. The other has not moved, but then again, his presence had been registered the moment he entered: if he had been a threat, he would no longer be breathing. 

"Hey, Scully," he says finally, and she looks across the window at him. God, he thinks, is there anyone who isn't dying of fatigue? She is immaculately presented, as always—the sparingly applied makeup artfully enhancing the high cheekbones, the evocative eyes—but there is a weariness in her stare that says she needs more than sleep, more than just a few hours of snatched rest. She offers a half-smile, tucks her hair behind an ear. 

"Hi," she says quietly. "Did you get the package?" 

Alex nods, crosses back to his coat and fishes a vial out of the pocket. He tosses it to her and she snatches it from the air, holds it to the meagre half-light from the window. She shakes it once, fascinated by the tiny neon fragments that pulse white within the slow amber liquid. Neither dare risk more light, and so she squints at the crabbed handwriting of the label, trying to make out the illegible scrawl. 

"What—did you drop it in a puddle?" She asks archly as she finds the ink blotches. 

"No." He crosses back to the window, glances up and down the street. "Is he not back, yet?" 

Scully gives him a level look, purses her lips and shakes her head slightly. "He was supposed to check-in two hours ago, but there's been no word and no sign. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but every time he misses a deadline, it's like the first time all over again." She puts the vial down on the windowsill, picks up the glass and pours herself a shot of vodka from the bottle by her feet. She slugs it back, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and then pours herself a refill. "Dammit, Alex—he's treating this as if we were still in the Bureau, safe behind our badges. He's used to marching in at the front door expecting the truth to be handed to him just because he wants it. He's going to get us all fucking killed." Her voice trembles with tiredness and emotion, and her shoulders slump. She passes a hand across her eyes. "Give me a cigarette," she says. "I don't know how much more of this I can take." Her voice cracks. 

"Hey! Shhh... " Alex enfolds a reluctant Scully in his arms, kisses her on the forehead, prises the shot glass from her fingers. After a moment she unbends enough to hug him back, resting her cheek against his chest. He strokes her hair gently, rhythmically. "I've been doing this longer than you, Scully - it never gets easier, but you do become accustomed to it, given time." He breathes deeply, rests his chin on the top of her head. "And as for Fox... Either we trust him to keep himself safe; we find some way of making him understand this world that he's chosen; or we cut him loose." Scully tenses against him and Alex squeezes her reassuringly. "I know, I know... He's got my heart in his pocket, remember. The 'cut-him-loose' option was never really an option... although perhaps I'd be able to find clean socks again if we did." 

They stand in silence, framed by the window and the moonlight and the glare of street-lamps refracted through raindrops. 

After a moment, Alex says: "I do have some good news, though. Well, a lead on something good, anyway." 

Scully mumbles something into his t-shirt. 

"What was that?" Alex asks. 

Scully pushes away, wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm. "I _said_ : it's about time." She picks her gun up from the windowsill and holsters it in the back of her black jeans. She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and fishes one out. Smoothly, she raises it to her lips and lights it, draws the smoke deep into her lungs. She sighs out a plume of purple-grey smoke. "So... What is it?" 

"You've smudged your eyeliner," Alex says. 

"Fuck the eyeliner, Krycek." Interlude over, Scully is in business again. "What's the news?" 

Alex pauses. "I think I've found Nikolai." 

* * *

He'd been watching her for hours, following her through the warps and wefts of the Shades' twisted streets. Hopelessly lost, confused by the abstract illogical topography of the cobbled lanes and alleys, he'd tracked her back and forth over the same ground, beating paths and retracing steps without any rhyme or reason that he could fathom. 

His reasons are obvious enough. From the moment that he'd seen her silhouette on the Putnam Bridge, he'd been awfully, horribly sure that it was _her_. Even after all these years, the walk was unmistakable, the angle of the head—the uplifted chin, the quizzical tilt—absurdly distinctive, utterly, quintessentially, _her_. 

He's followed her for hours, drifting in and out of shadows, afraid of being seen, afraid of losing her, afraid of it not being her. He's tried to get ahead, to catch a glimpse of her face, but somehow she's remained just out of reach, just too far away for a clear view. 

He's followed the surging tides of his heartbeat, breathless and panicked, dizzy with hope and apprehension; followed the familiar loose-limbed stride, never daring to shout her name. His stomach clenched painfully every time he lost sight of her even for the briefest second, his rattling breath, his canted pulse shouting: _it's her_ ; _it's her_ ; _it's her_ , while his thoughts whispered, insidious: _it's not_ , _it can't be_ ; _it can't be_. 

If he could just get close, he'd know. If he could just see her face clearly—just for a second—he'd be able to... to what? To accost her? What would he say? 'My name's Fox—do you remember me from way back when?' 

He stands cloaked in the shadows of a slumped building watching her make another of those extended pauses. Her head bows, hair falling across her face, and this time she bends down to touch the fractured cobbles, runs long fingers over the ground. After a moment, she stands again and cocks her head to one side as if she's searching internally for a direction to take. 

It suddenly occurs to him that perhaps there _is_ a pattern in her movements, even if it's one that he can't verify. He's made these leaps of logic before, is familiar with the abrupt forming of mental connections that place a workable answer within mental reach; he's used to arriving at an answer and then working back through evidence until he can extrapolate how he'd reached this conclusion, and now... Now he curses mildly under his breath and lets his eyes roam the street, checking the shadows and alleyways, something he should have been doing as a matter of course. Alex is going to kill me he thinks—Hell, Scully's going to kill Alex for getting to me first. 

He'd smile if his mind weren't so busy filing and sorting information. 

He thinks quickly: either she knows she's being followed, or she's following someone. Which? His breath hisses between his teeth as he worries his lower lip. His brain skips ahead again: she was following someone, even as he was following her, hunting them—no: _tracking_ them. There was no urgency of pursuit, no intensity—not hunting then, but following nevertheless. Mentally reviewing her actions, he curses himself for not seeing it earlier - not seeing the way that she'd paused and considered before committing to what had seemed an arbitrary alteration of route; how her stride had lengthened and firmed as she became more confident; how she examined the cobbled streets periodically, as if checking for traces of her quarry. She hadn't glanced back even once. 

But nor did she make any effort to hide what she was doing—it was one of the things that had prevented him seeing this earlier. She had walked along the street purposefully, openly—obviously, for Christ's sake. What sort of a tail was she? Over-confident, he says to himself, and then amends the thought. No... assured. She'd obviously not lost her quarry once in all the hours that he'd followed her, but now, though, she looks almost confused, hesitant. 

"I don't care what she's doing," he mutters, "If it's her, I have to know... " Decision made, he straightens, takes a half step forward towards the street. 

There is suddenly a hand clamped around his arm, and a voice says, calmly, quietly in his ear: "Don't. There are some things that are best left unknown, Mr Mulder." 

Before he has time to acknowledge that he's moved, Mulder spins and throws a punch. In a heartbeat, he is slammed up against a wall and pinned there by a hand in the centre of his chest, and a forearm across his throat. He swallows awkwardly. 

"Don't say a word, Mulder. Not a single word. If you attract her attention, you might as well sign your own death certificate, and mine—there are some things that it is not worth dying to know. Trust me, this is one of them." 

Mulder finds himself looking down at the man that has him pressed against the wall: the man is short, slender, almost elfin—he shouldn't have been able to pin Mulder against the wall, and yet Mulder cannot move in the man's grip. Mulder doesn't recognise him, has never seen him before—he doesn't know that many Australians, and he's sure he would have recognised this one. 

"Get your hands off me." Mulder says succinctly, whispering. 

The man assesses him with an intent look in his amber eyes, and then releases him. Mulder straightens slowly, reaches surreptitiously for his gun. 

"Don't do anything stupid, Mulder. I know it's a stretch, but you're not protected by your badge now... " Mulder relaxes his hand, and the man nods, smiles slightly—teeth like Alex's, Mulder thinks, absurdly. "Look—I'm not a people person, so I'm gonna make this quick... I won't be able to tell you what you want to know, Mulder. No—don't say anything, I don't have time." He's Australian, Mulder thinks as some part of him begins to sort and analyse. Short; brown, slightly wavy hair; amber eyes; slightly crooked teeth; elfin; intense. 

"Who are you? What do you know about that woman?" 

"Take another look around the corner." 

"Why should I? Who the hell are you, dammit! What do you want?" 

The Australian sighs. "My name's Revelation. I'm an in-law. Sort of." Mulder looks at him, baffled. "I don't have time for this," Revelation says. "Look, just consider me someone's Guardian Angel, Mulder—not yours, but close enough at the moment. I've been watching you follow her following _him_. I'm telling you to back off." 

"Him who?" 

Revelation flinches slightly. "Take a look around the corner, Mulder." 

Mulder looks at him suspiciously, and then snatches a glance. The woman is still standing there, watching intently as a young man steps out from another alley way and begins walking away from her. 

"Him?" Revelation nods. "He doesn't seem to be in too much of a hurry to get away." 

"That's because he's got two brain cells to rub together. If he ran, then she could chase him; if he looked back, then she could take him down. That's the way it works, the contract of the streets. In the meantime, she's going to keep following him until he drops from exhaustion. He's done well so far, but not well enough that I can get him out of this." 

"Who is she?" 

Revelation assesses Mulder coolly. "She's not who you think she is." 

Mulder studies him carefully. "The hell she's not," he says. Abruptly, decision made, he bolts from the alleyway. 

Several things happen at once: he hears himself call—"Samantha!"; he hears Revelation shout his name; he see the young man turn, and then, horrified, start to run. His eyes are caught by the sudden stiffening of her posture, the clenching of a hand; she turns, and all he can see is the flare of her hair, the feathers around her eyes. 

There are feathers around her eyes! 

There is a sudden harsh flare of light, and the earth seems to fall away beneath his feet. It is a sensation he has felt before—the curious detachment, the eerie cocooning quiet, the utter weightlessness and abstraction. Time itself is held suspended, the progression of second to second a slow and leisurely spiral in which all might be perceived and understood if only there were a common frame of reference. 

He hangs, mid-air, all sense of self lost as images flash before his eyes too quickly to register. Half-sounds—swallowed syllabics—hiss sporadic pulses like gulps of conversation. He feels his body spasm—once, twice, three times—and then begin a slow, languid fall towards the ground. 

There is suddenly a loud roar, and time resumes its normal flow. A blast of heat, a confusion of screams and the smell of burning, and he smashes violently into the cobbles of the street—all breath driven from his lungs, all thoughts lost beneath the sudden flood of blood and pain and painandpainand painpainpainpainpain... 

The cacophony of whispers recalls him to himself. Echoing around him, they hiss violently from the sagging walls of the houses, the cobbled street, the air itself, a low underscoring of the night's still silence that gradually dwindle to a murmur, fade to insignificance. 

For a moment he cannot recall why he is lying on the street, cannot fathom the puddle that moistens his torn cheek, drowns the sight in his right eye. He lies in the rain, feels the cold and the damp coil around him, watches his blood wash diluted red highlights over the cobbles, gleaming darkly in the distant flickering glow of fire. He attempts a breath, exhales slowly through his mouth, feels bubbles form against split and bloodied lips. His next breath draws metallic rain water into his mouth, thick with street grime and blood, and he gathers enough semblance of self to spit it out, choking and coughing. He lies still until the pain begins to impinge on his awareness—a slow burn that gradually heats each bruise, each graze, each rent in his skin to a blaze of agony. He groans and tries to heave himself up, sways roughly back and forth as the pain threatens to overwhelm him again and pull him back into the darkness. 

He manages to crawl to the nearest wall—an eternity, it seems—and leans gratefully against the cool stone. How long? he thinks. Oh fuck—God in heaven, how long? 

After a time he is able to prise open his eyes. He's so tired... so tired... it would be so easy to just let them close again and rest... just for a bit—just for a moment... no harm, Alex... just five more minutes and I'll wake up... His eyes begin to drift closed and he forces them open. Can't afford the luxury of unconsciousness; can't afford to allow himself the chance that he might die. His eyelids are heavy nevertheless. He begins to sink, to fall, the blackness rising up to meet him. 

As his body slumps, the ragged scrape of brick against his back shoots flares across his nerve endings. Amidst the pain, he is grateful that it forces his mind towards some shred of coherency—enough at least to feel the coolness of someone's palm against his cheek, someone's fingers pressed to his neck, feeling for a pulse. 

He can hear muttering, formless sounds that slowly resolve themselves into words, one voice talking to itself. "... bloody fool!" 

He blinks vision into a wavering focus, sees a pair of shadowed green eyes staring intently at him, sees absurdly long eyelashes, a slightly up-turned nose. His hazed mind seizes upon these things, draws conclusions, delivers them to his mouth. 

"Alex?" He rasps, moistening his lips. "Alex... I'm sorry... I'm sorry." 

The figure recoils slightly, reconsiders, raises tentative fingers to brush his hair back. "Alex?" the figure says, "My name's not Al... Shit. D'you know Alex Krycek? Are you talking about Alex Krycek?" 

He begins to fade again and is brought round by a sudden slap. 

"Do you speak Russian? Tyh govorish' poh rooski? Tyh znaesh Alexeya? Mogesh skazat' gde on? " The figure pauses, waits for some response and then tries again in English. "Do you know Alexei? Can you tell me where he is?" There is an anxious tension, an almost panicked urgency. "You thought you recognised me... Were you talking about Alex Krycek?" There is another slap. "Ne umresh tyh ot neskol'kich porezov, muszik! Otvechay, chert vos'mi! Answer me, dammit!" 

He struggles for words, aware of the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. "No... n't Russian... Y'r'not Alex?" He manages. "Who... you?" 

"Forget that—were you talking about Alex Krycek? This may be more important than you know." The anxiety in the other's voice is palpable. 

"Yes... Krycek... " 

"Fuck... oh fuckfuckfuck. Thank God!" The other exhales heavily, rests his forehead on the heel of his palm, wipes his face on the sleeve of his leather jacket. As he swims further into view it's clear that he is not Alex - his face is younger, the nose a fraction less tilted, the mouth more generous; his hair, rain-slicked, is much longer. This new not-quite-Alex notices the squint, the bemused stare. He nods, his face drawn, his eyes cool and assessing, and then says "Where can I find him? Forget that—you're going to get up and take me to Alex." 

"Mulder... " Mulder manages in introduction, talking getting somehow easier. 

The other's reaction is startling. He shoots to his feet and looks around wildly, steel blade abruptly appearing in his hand. "Where?" He says harshly, his voice taut and sharp, every tense line of his body quivering. 

Mulder shifts again against the wall, raises a shaking hand to wipe blood from his lips. "'S'me. M'name: Mulder... Fox Mulder." 

The other seems almost to crumple as the tension gives way to relief. "Oh Jeez-sus God in Heaven," he says. "Not another one." He blows his breath out harshly. "Fucking hell... No, strike that: 'Hell is empty, and all it's inmates are here'." He scrubs a hand through his hair, shakes some of the rain from his eyes. "I've got to find Sasha quickly, Fox Mulder. He'll know what to do. C'mon Foxy... let's go find Alex." He slips an arm gently, considerately, beneath Mulder's arms and slowly levers him upright. As Mulder rests against the wall, the young man shoots wary glances up and down the street, shifts nervously, impatient and restless. 

Mulder blinks. "'N' you?" 

"Me what?" 

"Y'r name?" 

The other assesses him coolly and then gives another almost-nod. "You can call me Mockery, Foxy." 

"That's a name?" 

"I didn't say it was a name, I said it was what you can call me." 

Mulder shivers. "Revelation; Mockery—what's goin' on? I'm dead. I must be." 

Mockery laughs harshly. "We're all dead, Fox-boy. 'S'just only you and me know it." 

* * *

Russian Translations: 

'Tyh govorish' poh rooski? Tyh znaesh Alexeya? Mogesh skazat' gde on?'—You speak Russian? Do you know Alexei? Can you tell me where he is? 

'Ne umresh tyh ot neskol'kich porezov, muszik! Otvechay, chert vos'mi!' - You won't die from a few papercuts, man! Answer me dammit! 

_'Sometimes fires don't go out/  
when you're done playing with them'   
— Coyote Shivers, 'Sugar High'_

[email removed] 

Okay, so here we go—my response to the January Challenge, Part 2... I _know_ it's not January anymore: it just takes a while to send stuff from the Abyss...   
This here is seriously AU stuff, although that wasn't entirely intentional... I'm not sure how... uh... well... I don't really understand the ratings anyway. I figure that this is gonna haveta be an M/K somewhere along the line—but you'll have to read it to find out whether that 'M' stands for 'Mulder' or 'Mockery' . This _is_ supposed to be Mary Sue fic, after all...   
I'll confess that it does contain characters created by a certain Mr Carter, but they remain wholly the property of said Mr Carter, 1013 productions and Twentieth Century Fox Pictures Corporation, although I _am_ borrowing them for a bit—I'll give 'em back, okay? Jeez... relax already. No infringement is intended; this is not for profit.   
Don't sue me, please, Mr Carter- there's no point and no money. I could write for you though...   
All feedback (good/constructive, likes/dislikes etc) gladly received. Please post feedback to the list or to: [email removed]   
I would like to dedicate this story to Ruric, LeFey, Auntie Ruthless, Frankie and Paula—and most especially to Jonah, if he wants it.   
Say what? Oh... I'm getting to the story. Are you braced for impact? Well then... here goes: Part 2. And yes, Mulder and Krycek _do_ appear in this one.   
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